"Yes. Isn't it?"

"But soon you will know people. Your aunt has acquaintances.
They--surely they will call; they will see you--they----"

"Will take an overwhelming fancy to me? just as you have done," says
she, with a quick, rather curious light in her eyes, and a tilting
of her pretty chin. "There! _go,"_ says she, "I have some work to
do; and you have your classes. It would never do for you to miss
_them._ And as for next week!--make it next month! I wouldn't for
the world be a trouble to you in any way."

"I shall come next week," says the professor, troubled in somewise
by the meaning in her eyes. What is it? Simple loneliness, or misery
downright? How young she looks--what a child! That tragic air does
not belong to her of right. She should be all laughter, and
lightness, and mirth----

"As you will," says she; her tone has grown almost haughty; there is
a sense of remorse in his breast as he goes down the stairs. Has he
been kind to old Wynter's child? Has he been true to his trust?
There has been an expression that might almost be termed despair in
the young face as he left her. Her face, with that expression on it,
haunts him all down the road.

Yes. He will call next week. What day is this? Friday. And Friday
next he is bound to deliver a lecture somewhere--he is not sure
where, but certainly somewhere. Well, Saturday then he might call.
But that----